


Cause I Need Your Sway

by fluorescentadolescent



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fluff and Smut, that is basically it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-06-05 04:50:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6690355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluorescentadolescent/pseuds/fluorescentadolescent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Oh, Princess. You’ve outdone yourself,” Bellamy says through a chuckle. </p><p>“You help me track down my ex’s and I’ll help you escape yours,” Clarke propositions confidently. </p><p>He crosses his arms over his ‘Free Licks’ tee, squinting at her. Clarke holds his gaze, unwavering. </p><p>“And you can use my apartment to hide in,” she adds, albeit begrudgingly. </p><p>Bellamy’s mouth tilts up at one corner before he looks down at his Chuck Taylors. He pretends to mull it over in his mind for a couple seconds before glancing up at her from under his freakishly dark lashes. </p><p>“You know, I never knew my Nana,” he finally says. </p><p>Clarke groans before shoving him, pulling a laugh out of him. </p><p> </p><p>Or: the AU loosely based off the film "What's Your Number?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cause I Need Your Sway

**Author's Note:**

> I should've just named this fic "In Defence of Bellamy Blake". This is 12k of... I have no idea. Fluff and smut?Because this show is ruining my life? 
> 
> Possible Triggers: One very brief mention of suicide and death caused by drunk driving. I'm bad at this tagging thing, so I thought i'd mention this just in case. 
> 
> (ty Kooks for title inspo)

_Thump Thump Thump._

 

She moans sleepily, rolling onto her side to stuff her face into the pillow. “Mmmm, go away!” she mutters half-heartedly, flailing an arm in the air, still too half-asleep to make any real effort.

 

_Thump Thump Thump._

One glance at her alarm clock tells her it’s 8:00 in the morning, which means it’s way too damn early, considering she worked overtime last night. “You have got to be fucking kidding me!” She rolls out of bed and stomps her way across her Boston apartment.

 

“WHAT?” She shouts, flinging the front door open. It’s far too early for anyone to be knocking on it, let alone Bellamy Blake from across the hall.

 

“Hey, Princess. I’m loving the bird’s nest hair-do. Is this a new look you’re trying out?” He looks too awake for 8:00 AM, clad in his khakis and rolling stones t-shirt, a newspaper dangling from one hand.

 

She smiles bitterly at him. “Maybe if you hadn’t rudely interrupted me at 8:00 in the fucking morning, I would look a tad bit more presentable!”

 

“Touchy. Look,” he begins, glancing over his shoulder towards his closed apartment door, “I’m locked out of my apartment. Think I could use your phone or something?” He starts to make his way through her front door, and her sleep muddled brain takes a moment to catch up and realize that he’s now fully inside her apartment.

 

“What are you talking about, Bellamy?” She demands, placing both hands on her hips. She rubs the sole of her foot against her bare leg, only realizing now that she’s dressed in a tank and short shorts.

 

He glances over his shoulder, past her through her open door, before turning to face her again. “Locked out, Princess. Now, unless you want me to succumb to the streets of Boston…”

 

She groans. “You’re so dramatic. Get in,” she mutters, shoving him further inside so she can close her front door. “And don’t call me Princess, jackass” she scolds, but just as she’s shutting her door, Bellamy’s does the opposite. A beautiful brunette walks out, glancing around confusedly. Clarke promptly slams her door shut, turning to Bellamy with her jaw open in dismay. He’s hiding behind one of her living room pillars beside the couch, which is hilarious because it does not cover his bulky figure in the slightest.

  

“Hey! I’m pretty sure the tall brunette walking out of your apartment could’ve helped you with the being locked out situation!”

 

He chuckles, emerging from behind the pillar to stand in front of her, a grin plastered on his face. He holds out the newspaper towards her, to which she proceeds to grab and smack his arm with.

 

“Ow! Jesus, Princess.” He looks at her as if she’s the foolish person who just barged into his apartment.

 

“Explain,” she growls.

 

“Okay, okay. Easy. I just let Roma know that I had an early dentist appointment,” he says, arms raised in mock surrender. “But, hey. You saved me. Thanks, Princess.”

 

“Ugh. You’re gross,” she tells him dismissively, walking back to her bedroom den for some more clothes. She picks out her black and yellow Bruins hoodie and throws it on before making her way back out to make some coffee. If she has to put up with Bellamy and his man-whore tendencies this early in the morning, she would need caffeine.

 

“Did you paint this?” He asks, standing in front of the framed canvas sitting above her desk in the far off corner of her apartment.

 

“Yeah,” she mutters. “Why?”

 

He takes a moment to respond, too busy scrutinizing the painting, a Vancouver mountain landscape, in front of him. “It’s amazing.”

 

She looks up at the tone his voice has taken – slightly awed, which is spectacularly strange for Bellamy Blake from the apartment across the hall. Bellamy does not get awe-inspired or sentimental. He gets cocky and horny.

 

He sounds genuine though, so Clarke responds with a curt, “Thanks.” As soon as it’s out of her mouth, he’s spinning around and focusing his restless energy on her. His face switches from the thoughtful pensiveness it had adopted for all of three seconds to his default smirk. She glances away, too tired to try and solve the puzzle that is Bellamy Blake.

 

As she’s stirring her spoon, she notices Bellamy has relocated and is now looking through her peephole, probably checking to see if the coast is clear.

 

“Alright. Looks like she left,” he voices, turning his head to face her. “You’re a peach. I owe you one.” He opens the door to head out.

 

She rolls her eyes. “And you’re a pig,” she shouts before he slams the door shut.

 

*

 

“No. No way. You need a dress that isn’t going to drown you. Tulle will drown you. A mermaid gown will not,” Clarke says, pushing the grocery cart down the aisle.

 

“Yeah, I’m not really into that whole tulle look anyway. I’ll try on the mermaid style when we go dress shopping. I don’t know if I can pull that off,” Raven says.

 

“Of course you can, your figure is great.”

 

Raven smiles at her before pausing in front of the cereal, throwing in some Corn Flakes and Wheaties.

 

“Ew. Wheaties? Seriously?”

 

“I know, but Wells cries if I grocery shop and I don’t buy them for him,” Raven says through a grin.

 

“Are we finished? I have to go home and change before my shift,” she asks her best friend, eyeing the box of Wheaties in disgust.

 

“Yeah, I just need to grab some coffee. You can start lining up, though. I’ll meet you there.”

 

“Alright.” Clarke pushes the cart eagerly towards checkout number nine, which has no line up.

 

She’s loading the conveyer belt with milk when she sees it – a Marie Claire magazine, the bolded letters ‘ **WHAT’S YOUR NUMBER?** ’ staring her right in the face.

 

She finishes unloading the cart before grabbing the magazine, her curiosity getting the better of her. Flipping to page twenty-five, like the front cover instructs, a photo of a pretty blonde seated in front of a backdrop of the number ‘15’ greets her. Underneath, the story goes on about a girl, Laura, who only has a couple more sleeping partners left before her chances of getting married lower drastically.

 

Now, Clarke has never really been one to ever concern herself with the institution of marriage, but the fact that this magazine is telling her that her own number is apparently on the higher side pisses her off.

 

Is her number high? She’s slept with twelve people, if her memory serves her correct. She never really gave much thought to it before. Is twelve a lot of people to have slept with?

 

“Hey, you getting that?” the cashier asks, pulling her out of her reverie.

 

“Uh,” she hesitates. “Sure,” she decides, passing the magazine to the smiling girl, feeling slightly self-conscious all of a sudden.

 

It’s back in Raven’s car, two blocks away from her apartment, when she decides to mention it.

 

“How many people have you slept with?”

 

Raven brakes a little too abruptly at the stop sign. “Uhh….” Raven releases a surprised laugh, making Clarke sigh.

 

“Sorry, that was weird. I should have transitioned into it better.”

 

Raven chuckles, shaking her head a little. “Eight.”

 

“Eight? That’s it? Why is your number so low?” She hears how hysteric she sounds.

 

“Because I was with Finn for half my life, and then I met Wells. I never really had time for more. The stilt in between wasn’t extremely long, either. I know, I’m upset about it, too,” Raven teases. “Why the hell are you asking, Clarke?” She questions after a moment of silence - not unkindly, just curious.

 

“Because according to Marie Claire magazine, my number is too high. Not that I give a shit, but it just rubbed me the wrong way,” she mutters stubbornly, staring out the window.

 

Raven pulls up outside Clarke’s apartment building, putting her Jeep into park. “Listen to me,” Raven says sternly, prompting Clarke to turn. “Your number is not too high. Fuck Marie Claire. What are you at? Ten? Twelve? Twenty? That’s not a lot for a twenty-eight year old. Why are you freaking out? Since when do you care?”

 

Clarke shrugs. “Maybe I’m just tired of putting effort into half-ass relationships that never seem to work out. Am I weird? Do I repel people, Raven?”

 

“Jesus Christ, I _know_ we don’t have enough time for this conversation before your shift. You are perfect and strong and lovely, and I love you. I’d pick you first, you know that. And I’m almost certain all those people weren’t relationships. Clarke, you pretty much went on a sex rampage across Boston after Lexa.”

 

She laughs, remembering how bitter she had been after that shit-show of a relationship, if one could even call it one. “Alright. I’m done being irrational. Love you,” she says, jumping out of the truck.

 

“Don’t sleep with anyone on the way up to your apartment. Especially not that hot neighbor of yours – you may never get married if you defile too many people!” Raven shouts through the open car window.

 

Clarke sticks her middle finger up in response.

 

* 

 

“Hey Mya, how many people have you slept with?”

 

“Crap!” Mya hisses. Clarke lifts her head from its spot on the couch to see that Mya has spilled her coffee on her hand, remnants of it dripping onto her scrubs.

 

“Are you alright?”

 

“Yeah, shoot. That was really hot.” After Mya has rinsed her hand off at the counter sink, she makes her way over to sit beside Clarke on the break room’s plush cotton couch. “Um. Clarke, why are you asking me that?”

 

“Sorry. I just… I’m curious. I feel like my number is getting too high.”

 

Mya just stares back at her, eyes widening in horror or amusement, she can’t tell.

 

“Sheesh, never mind!” Clarke tells her adorable pixie of a co-worker, leaning her head further back to close her eyes for a five-minute nap.

 

“One,” Mya states eventually, prompting Clarke’s head to snap up in surprise. 

 

“One?”

 

“Yes, I’ve slept with one person, Clarke. Is that really so hard to believe?”

 

“Yes! You’re adorable. And you know what they say about the quiet ones...” she trails off. Mya smacks her arm playfully.

 

Clarke laughs, running an exhausted hand down her face.

 

“Jasper was my first and only serious relationship, so…” Clarke nods her head in understanding. After a moment, Mya speaks up again.  “Why do you think your number is too high?”

 

“Because it probably is,” she states bluntly.

 

“According to whose standards? Society?”

 

“According to Marie Claire magazine and their researchers at Harvard University.” When Mya shakes her head in disappointment, like she so often does instead of stating her disapproval, Clarke sighs.

 

“I think something else about this article is bothering you, Clarke. Since when have you cared about something as trivial as your number?”

 

“I don’t know,” she responds quietly. “I think it’s just making me realize how much time I’ve wasted on idiots who weren’t worth the time or effort.”

 

“It’s not like you’ve dated that many people,” her co-worker voices.

 

“I know. Raven said that, too. But, what if I end up alone for the rest of my life because I’ve made myself too sexually available? What if that fucked with my head? Or my self-esteem?”

 

“Clarke, you are, like, one of the most self-assured people I have ever met. And the amount of people you’ve slept with isn’t going to determine whether or not you end up alone.”

 

“So why am I freaking out about this damn article?” she asks Mya helplessly, hating the whine of her voice.

 

Mya stands up, depositing her now empty coffee cup in the garbage. Leaning against the threshold of the break room, she asks, “Are you lonely?”

 

She glares at Mya until a giggle escapes her co-worker.

 

“Okay, okay. You’re not lonely. Maybe you’re having an existential crisis. Or maybe you’re just regretting your loosey-goosey phase,” she says, shrugging.

 

“Mya!”

 

“What? We all have one, Clarke.”

 

“Yeah, everyone except you, apparently.”

 

“Sh,” the girl hushes, holding a finger to her lips. “Jasper might hear you.”

 

*

 

Clarke’s walking up the stairs after a twelve-hour shift when she hears the yelling.

 

“--a fucking protective twat! This isn’t ancient Rome, Bell. I can decide who the hell I spend my time with!”

 

“Not when that person is a tattooed-covered gang member!”

 

“You are so dramatic, oh my god, Bellamy! He’s an artist!”

 

She then hears a high-pitched, frustrated screech followed by something that distinctly sounds like a person being shoved into a door and the loud thumps of quick-paced steps.

 

Clarke rounds the corner and nearly collides with a sharp-angled, fiery brunette who looks ready to kill.

 

“My bad,” Clarke mutters, to which the brunette ignores, continuing her assault down the stairs.

 

Clarke turns back around, adjusting her purse, which nearly flew off in their near-collision, and goes up the final five steps it takes to reach her floor. When she reaches the top, though, Bellamy is rubbing his arm and staring at the hallway’s hardwood floors in disconcertment.

 

“What’d you do this time? Sleep with her sister?”

 

Bellamy’s head shoots up, finally seeming to notice her presence there in the hall, before his face twists into something akin to disgust. “Ugh. That _is_ my sister.”

 

Her face screws up to mirror his at her horrific, incestuous accusation.

 

“What’d you do?” he echoes bitterly. “Just get finished screwing the other half of Boston?”

 

She’s closing the distance between them and slapping him across the face before she even realizes it, staring in dismay at his turned face.

 

“Clarke-” Bellamy starts, but she’s already gone, slamming the door in his face before he can finish his half-ass apology.

 

She slides down her door, hears Bellamy’s muffled “Fuck,” and begins to cry tears of, both, frustration and exhaustion.

 

She has always been good at being alone. She’d just never been particularly good at being lonely. And lonely, in spite of everything she told Mya, is what she feels.

 

*

 

She wakes to the sound of someone knocking on her door. She’s still in her scrubs when she gets up off the couch to answer it, not having had enough energy to change and make it to her bed the night before.

 

Clarke opens the door to a bashful and apologetic looking Bellamy holding a bouquet of blue lilies.

 

She moves to close the door again, but he shoots an arm out to stop her. “Clarke, wait, please.”

 

“What the hell do you want?”

 

“To apologize,” he says, pushing her door back open gently.

 

She crosses her arms, waiting.

 

His eyes widen a little, as if he finally understands that she is giving him the time of day. He looks down, running a nervous hand through his mess of curls, before locking his eyes on hers. They’re remorseful and bordering on pleading, which throws her a little.

 

“Prin- shit. _Clarke_. I’m sorry, alright? I was a dick. You caught me at a bad time and I was an asshole to you.”

 

She raises her eyebrows expectantly.

 

“And I didn’t mean anything I said about you sleeping around.”

 

She’s still staring at him, because she loves making Bellamy Blake squirm.

 

“And I’m really sorry for acting like a misogynistic, sexist asshole?”

 

She waits a couple moments before relenting. “Fine,” she declares, to which he exhales heavily. Throwing an arm out, he offers her the bouquet of flowers.

 

“I’m not really a flower girl.” She accepts them anyway.

 

“Yeah, I figured, but my sister said I couldn’t just show up here empty handed.”

 

“Oh, she’s talking to you again?”

 

He nods, but doesn’t explain further.

 

“Alright, well, I should get going. My shift starts soon,” he states, backing up to walk the three meters necessary to get to his apartment.

 

She nods, and then remembers something. “Hey!” He turns around, giving her a puzzled look. “You’re a cop, right? If I asked you to find some people for me, could you?”

 

He turns around fully to lean against his door and face her. “Oh no. Who messed with you?”

 

“Not for that!” she says, exasperated. “I just… I think some of my exes might be worth another try,” she relents, not meeting his gaze.

 

“No.”

 

She looks up in surprise.

 

“No way. I refuse to help you try and make a bad thing work.”

 

“What the hell are you talking about?”

 

“Do you have herpes?”

 

“What? No!”

 

“Then there is no reason why you should be hunting down your exes.”

 

“Ugh. No wonder your sister wants to punch you in the face. You really are a controlling asshole.”

 

“Don’t be mad!”

 

“I’m sorry I asked,” she shouts before slamming the door in his face for the second time in not even 24 hours.

 

*

 

“90% of women who have been with 15 or more lovers can't find a husband,” she reads in lieu of a greeting to Raven over the phone.

 

Raven groans before stating a simple, “You’re insane. You know that, right?”

 

“I am not insane for worrying about being alone for the rest of my life, Reyes!”

 

“Clarke. What the hell is this all about? Do I need to prepare an intervention? Because I will.”

 

“Maybe I need to just go back and reconsider some of my exes, you know?”

 

“No, I really don’t. You ended those relationships because 99% of them were toxic and made you unwise. You need new, not old.”

 

“Rae, I’m twenty-eight. I work more than I go out, and the last time I dated was nine months ago. I need to do _something_.”

 

“You being single for an extended period of time has never bothered you before. And you being sexually available has never bothered you before. Clarke, you’re letting a ridiculous magazine stress you out.”

 

“I just feel like everyone is getting their lives together and I’m at this standstill, doing nothing exciting or flourishing.”

 

She hears her friend sigh over the phone. “Sometimes it scares me how unaware you are of your own incredible qualities.”

 

“I mean, obviously not Finn, but some of my other exes weren’t too bad?” Clarke continues, unfazed.

 

“Sterling was a tool. I’m sorry, but he was. Michelle was allergic to commitment and Lexa… do you really want to get into the Lexa topic?”

 

Clarke groans, thumping her forehead onto her kitchen island counter.

 

“Okay, we’re going out. Clearly you need it. Desperately.”

 

“Where?” Clarke questions, whiny.

 

“Fuck if I know, but you need to get out of that apartment for a reason besides work or groceries.”

 

“I leave my apartment for more than that!”

 

“Yeah? Like what?” Raven asks, all mock curiosity.

 

“Like… like the dentist. Or to shop. And run errands.”

 

“Yeah, okay. I’ll be there in twenty.”

 

*

 

“How about that tall willowy brunette? By the bar.” Raven questions.

 

“Hmm. Yeah, she’s pretty. Looks like she’s with someone already though.” And sure enough, the blonde man standing beside her throws an arm across her shoulders, leading the brunette to a nearby table.

 

“And possibly hetero. Okay, how about guns for arms over by the pool table?”

 

“Raven!” Clarke scolds her best friend, mortified.

 

“What? He doesn’t look _that_ steroid-infused,” Raven grins, taking a sip of her beer, eyes widening mid-sip.

 

“What?” Clarke asks urgently at the look on her friend’s face. She glances around, trying to see what Raven has.

 

“Holy shit. Okay, golden god at six o‘clock.”

 

Clarke follows Raven’s gaze discreetly towards the bar. She can’t see his face, as he’s ordering a drink, but he definitely has beautifully toned, golden skin. The man is wearing a white t-shirt, which accentuates his strong arms. There’s a maroon beanie atop his head, but she can see some brown wisps of hair peeking out and curling at the ends.

 

“I can’t see his face,” Clarke tells Raven irritably.

 

“Go get a drink. Quick – before he leaves!”

 

“Jeez, okay.”

 

Clarke makes her way to the bar. Forcing casualness as she slides onto a stool two seats away from Golden God, she orders another Rye and Ginger. She waits until she gets her drink before sucking in a breath and turning her head to catch a better look.

 

She nearly spits out her drink when she sees that it’s Bellamy laughing with another guy, also in a beanie.

 

Her coughing fit must be what catches his attention.

 

“Clarke?”

 

“Bellamy,” she wheezes, waving pathetically, because she still has some Rye and Ginger stuck in her windpipe.

 

“You alright over there?”

 

She coughs once more before swallowing and nodding. She quickly glances back at Raven, who is laughing her fucking ass off, before getting up and introducing herself to Bellamy’s friend, who is staring at her amusedly.

 

“Miller,” he tells her as she shakes his hand and introduces herself, shooting her a small smile.

 

When she looks back up at Bellamy, he has an amused twinkle in his eye as he observes her.

 

“I’m still mad at you,” she voices, because she can’t think of something witty and interesting to say with him staring at her like that.

 

“Oh, I know. And I still refuse to hunt down your exes for you,” he responds, smirking.

 

“Wait, what?” Miller inquires.

 

Clarke groans. “Nothing. Bellamy is a dick. How are you friends with such a bag of dicks? Did you know that he hid in my apartment to escape a one-night-stand?”

 

“Ah, so you’re the neighbor,” Miller says almost mischievously. The way Bellamy tenses doesn’t go unnoticed by Clarke. “Yes, sometimes I question why I am friends with such a bag of dicks,” Miller tells her, chuckling, slapping Bellamy on the shoulder.

 

“Shut the fuck up,” Bellamy grumbles. “So,” he says to Clarke now, “you here alone, or what?”

 

“No, actually. Figured I’d lay off on the ‘screwing all of Boston’ tonight, though” she snipes. Bellamy’s smirk falls, and he glances down to the ground, ashamed. Clarke immediately feels bad, though, because he already apologized for that. “Seriously, though, I’m with my friend Raven,” Clarke tells them, pointing in the direction of their table. Raven waves back amusedly at the three of them.

 

Bellamy nods. “You guys can join us if you want,” Clarke voices, glancing pointedly around at the busy bar. Bellamy turns his head towards her, unsure.

 

“Seriously,” Clarke assures. “We won’t bite.”

 

Bellamy finally cracks a grin at that, the guilt seeping away from his eyes. He exchanges a quick glance with Miller before accepting.

 

*

 

“Thish one ish delishish,” Clarke mumbles through a mouthful of chocolate-hazelnut cake.

 

Raven stops writing in her wedding planner to glance up at her best friend. “Come again?” Her dark brown eyes twinkle in amusement.

 

Clarke swallows before repeating herself. “This one is delicious. If it were me getting married, I would definitely choose this cake.”

 

Raven smirks. “I’ll remember that.”

 

“So,” Clarke starts, smiling, “I was thinking I’d bring Niylah as my plus one to your wedding.”

 

Raven nods thoughtfully, pursing her lips. “Yeah. Or you could just meet someone new and ask them.”

 

“But then that runs the risk of sleeping with somebody new.”

 

Raven’s stare is so disapproving that Clarke has to dive back in for another piece of cake in lieu of responding.

 

“I think the Niylah thing is a bad idea. That girl just got over you not too long ago. You ask her to be your date and that can of worms may get opened again.” Raven steals a piece from a nearby strawberry cake before continuing, “Here’s a better idea. Why don’t you ask your hot neighbor?”

 

Clarke scrunches her face up in disgust. “Bellamy? The asshole? Jesus, Raven, at least suggest someone humane.”

 

“What are you always going on about? He was nice at the bar. So what if he’s a little smug – so are you!”

 

“Raven, he basically called me a slut… when he does the exact same shit, if not worse.”

 

“And I’m sure you called him a slut at some point in time, too. I just don’t think you should write him off completely,” Raven says, shrugging.

 

“And I think you should really get this cake,” Clarke responds, stealing another forkful.

 

*

 

Clarke slugs up the stairs, exhausted. As much as she tries not to, she keeps replaying the horrid conversation she had with her mother on the phone earlier.

 

_“Clarke, honey, I’m just worried.”_

_“Mom, you don’t need to be worried. I love my job.”_

_“I know that, but maybe it doesn’t leave enough time for you to socialize and meet… people.”_

_“Mom, Raven is basically a rocket scientist and even she has time to socialize. Well, she actually met Wells on the job. But, you don’t need to worry about my social life,” she said more forcefully than was probably necessary._

_“You’re just so wonderful and no one is going to get the opportunity to see that if you hole yourself up in that apartment when you’re not working.”_

_“You especially don’t need to worry about my love life,” Clarke bit out before hanging up._

It was like the world was giving her the middle finger and pasting a big “I’M SINGLE AND LONELY” sign on her forehead.

 

She pauses, weary and confused, upon hearing the raised voices.

 

“Roma! It’s Ro-ma, you fucking prick!”

 

“Easy. I told you I didn’t want anything serious, that’s why I invited you over in the first place. Don’t pull a 360 on me now,” someone, who sounds distinctly like Bellamy, responds. He sounds drained.

 

 _Why the fuck is he always fighting with women in our hallway?_ Clarke thinks, displeased.

 

“The least you could do is remember my fucking name!”

 

“I know your name,” Bellamy says, more irritated now, “I just… had a brain fart.”

 

“A brain fart?” The girl screeches, promptly making Clarke wince as she rounds the corner and climbs the final set of stairs.

 

Bellamy has his arms crossed across his broad chest, looking extremely unimpressed, while a redhead glares daggers up at him.

 

Clarke nearly squeals when the idea hits her.

 

“Bellamy,” she breathes, all mock urgency. His gaze shoots up, face morphing into confusion when he sets his eyes on her frenzied state. “There you are!”

 

The redhead, Roma, turns her scowl onto Clarke now.

 

“It’s your grandma! Your sister called while I was at work. She slipped and she’s in the hospital. I came as soon as I found out,” Clarke rushes out, grabbing ahold of Bellamy’s bicep worriedly.

 

Understanding, then amusement, replaces the confusion quicker than she was expecting, and Bellamy impressively covers it up with a look of worry. “Is she alright?”

 

“Yeah, she’s fine, but she may have broken a hip or something, come on.” And then Clarke turns to the girl. “I’m so sorry,” she tells her, “you seem like a great girl, but Nana’s all they’ve got left,” Clarke rushes out, adopting a hopeless expression for good measure.

 

The redhead deflates, nodding in understanding. Bellamy is still rooted to his spot, and she can feel his heavy gaze on the side of her face, so she turns to him abruptly. “Let’s go!”

 

Clarke drags him down the stairs, all the way into the alley beside their apartment building, before letting go and turning to him with a smirk.

 

“Oh, Princess. You’ve outdone yourself,” Bellamy says through a chuckle.

 

“You help me track down my ex’s and I’ll help you escape yours,” Clarke propositions confidently.

 

He crosses his arms over his ‘Free Licks’ tee, squinting at her. Clarke holds his gaze, unwavering.

 

“And you can use my apartment to hide in,” she adds, albeit begrudgingly.

 

Bellamy’s mouth tilts up at one corner before he looks down at his Chuck Taylors. He pretends to mull it over in his mind for a couple seconds before glancing up at her from under his freakishly dark lashes.

 

“You know, I never knew my Nana,” he finally says.

 

Clarke groans before shoving him, pulling a laugh out of him.

 

“Fine. I’ll help you track down your ex’s, weirdo. I still don’t approve, though.”

 

“There’s a lot about you I don’t approve of,” Clarke tells him, smiling like the cat who got the cream.

  

*

 

“So how eager are we talking here?”

 

“I’ll take a car or a train, but not a plane. I only care if they’re still in Massachusetts.”

 

“Alright.” He rakes his eyes down the list she compiled of her ex’s, halting his scan like she knew he would. “Lexa Woods? As in, Norman Woods’ daughter?”

 

Clarke nods, a bitter purse to her lips. She just knew he’d spot it.

 

“Her father owns like half of Boston. You know how hard she’s gonna be to track down? Rich people protect their privacy better than Salinger. You seriously dated her?”

 

She nods. “We lost contact. Things ended pretty badly, then she enlisted,” she tells him, shrugging.

 

“Things ended badly and you still wanna try and reconnect?”

 

She mulls it over, remembers how Lexa made her feel so good yet so far away from herself. It’s why she dated her in the first place. They broke up because Clarke couldn’t take the distance their relationship had created between her and her friends. She couldn’t even recognize herself in the mirror by the end of their stint in delusion land. So, she doesn’t really have an adequate response to Bellamy’s question – just knows the loneliness that eats away at her every night.

 

“People change, right?” Clarke holds her breath, waits for the inevitable judgmental comment.

 

It doesn’t come, though. Bellamy simply raises his brows briefly, letting out an astonished, “Lexa Woods. _Shit_ ,” and moves on, back to the neat files strewn across his floor. All the information he’s found on her ex’s so far are neatly staked into separate manila folders, labeled according to person. The highlighted words and marginalia tell her just how much effort Bellamy has put into this desperate exploit of hers.

 

Clarke smiles a little.

 

*

 

“Hey Princess, I found Sterling.”

 

“Why do you call me that? Don’t call me that!” And then, “Already? Seriously?”

 

“Yeah. He’s working at a bar on Lansdowne Street.”

 

“Still?” She questions, to which Bellamy gives her a scathing look.

 

“And you question why I call you Princess?”

 

She punches him in the arm before quickly grabbing her leather coat and locking her front door.

 

“What’s happening? Where are you going?”

 

“We’re going downtown to check out this bar. Raven’s working and there’s no way I’m going alone.”

 

“And of course I’m the most viable option,” Bellamy tells her sarcastically, but he still reaches into his apartment to get his own coat.

 

Clarke spots Sterling as soon as they get there. He’s perched behind the bar, making a fancy drink with steam coming out of it for a group of ladies. He looks relatively the same, though his hair is shorter now and he’s not as slender as he once was.

 

Bellamy follows her line of sight, bumping her shoulder with his. “Should have figured Princess would be into Prince Charming,” he teases.

 

“Oh, shut up.”

 

He chuckles. “Go get that table over there and I’ll get us some drinks,” he offers, seemingly picking up on her discomfort.

 

The whole ordeal is pretty anticlimactic. Clarke musters up the nerve to go up to the bar eventually to say hello, and it’s nice, but she remembers why Sterling and her broke up in the first place.

 

They never clicked like two people were supposed to. They were more friends than anything. And Clarke had been young – about nineteen when they dated, and by the time she hit twenty they had already broken up.

 

Bellamy is talking up the willowy brunette waitress at their table when she makes her way back, ready to head home.

 

“Hey, I’m gonna head out. I’ll see you, alright?”

 

“Hey, wait up,” Bellamy tells her, disentangling himself from the girl. He reaches for his coat, following closely behind her as she makes her way towards the exit.

 

“That bad?” He questions, all genuine interest.

 

She peeks up at him as they walk side-by-side, shrugs. “Not really. It’s just- I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t that. He was kind and all, that’s why I dated him in the first place, but there was nothing really there.”

 

“Ah,” Bellamy says, thoughtful. “No spark, huh?”

 

Clarke shoots him a withering glare, prompting him to chuckle. “We were just always really platonic towards one another. And I can’t see that changing just because I’m older and have bigger boobs now.”

 

“You underestimate us straight, red-blooded males. You could’ve had some fun, regardless.”

 

“Nah. Even if it didn’t raise my number, if I’m going to be bringing them to Raven’s wedding I want them to be someone with potential, you know?” She realizes her slip-up too late, reddening in embarrassment at having Bellamy know her true motives.

 

“Wait, back up! That’s what this is all about? You don’t want to raise your number?” Bellamy stops walking to stare at her in bewilderment, the street lamp casting him under a flattering light.  “That’s why you won’t sleep with me!” He declares.

 

Clarke rolls her eyes, disentangling the arm he had grabbed to stop her from walking. “You’re ridiculous, you know that? There are about a thousand reasons why I won’t sleep with you.”

 

“Hmm, okay. Whatever you say, Princess.”

 

They continue walking. After some time, Bellamy speaks up again. “I mean, I know I don’t know you all that well, but you didn’t really strike me as the kind of girl who would care.”

 

She swallows thickly, shrugging. “I’m almost thirty, and all of my closest friends have settled down and I- I’m just here, at this stand still. And maybe I’ve made myself too available – screwed with my head because of it.”

 

“That’s bullshit, and you and I both know it, Clarke. What guy or girl cares about how many people you’ve slept with?”

 

“Decent ones!” She doesn’t believe her own words, though. She wouldn’t give a shit and she thinks she’s a pretty decent person.

 

Bellamy shakes his head, smirking. “Whatever you say.”

 

*

 

“Hey, how’d you know I have no parents?”

 

“What?” Clarke asks, alarmed.

 

“The day we made this deal, you told Roma Nana was all O and I had left. How’d you know?”

 

“Oh,” Clarke coughs, uncomfortable. “Uh, I didn’t actually. I just said that to Roma because it was the first thing that popped into my head.”

 

He looks away, nodding.

 

“I was right?”

 

“Sort of, ” he says finally. “Except about my grandma.” He smirks at her, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. It rarely ever does. “I never knew my dad, but my mom passed a while back now. Drunk driver.”

 

Clarke swallows the lump that has lodged itself in her throat. She nods. “They locked my dad up and then tried to play his murder off as suicide.”

 

Bellamy’s eyes bore into her own, full of understanding and sadness and anger.

 

She gets up, because it looks like he’s going to say something to comfort her, and fills her plate with more dumplings. “You want more?” She asks, hoping her voice doesn’t sound too strangled.

 

Bellamy clears his throat. “Nah, I’m okay.”

 

*

 

She gets home, feeling lousy, to find Bellamy sprawled across her couch reading Sophocles.

 

“What are you doing here?” She asks, weary. It’s nearly midnight, and Bellamy usually only ever uses her apartment in the early morning to escape the girls he goes home with.

 

“Hey. Sorry, I can go. I just wanted to tell you about my sister’s boyfriend, Lincoln. He’s got an art gallery and there’s an opening and – woah, hey. Are you alright?” Bellamy places the book down and makes his way over to her.

 

She’s nearly crying, partly because she’s exhausted from spending the night with her ex, Michelle, whom already dumped her once, and partly because of Bellamy’s thoughtfulness.

 

“Yeah,” she sniffs, “Just had a long night. Thanks for thinking of me, though. That’s really nice of you.”

 

He smiles down at her, gently brushing a strand of loose hair away from her face to place behind her ear. “No worries,” he tells her gently. “Hey, let’s get out of here.”

Clarke swipes under her eyes before looking up at him again. “And go where?”

 

He grins hugely. “Surprise,” he tells her simply.

 

They end up at the Garden, where he used to work and managed to swipe a key card before quitting.

 

"Alright, we're playing Horse,” he declares as he flicks on one of the court lights.

 

"Horse?"

 

“Strip Horse, specifically.”

 

“Strip Horse?”

 

"Yup,” he shouts from across the basketball court, where he ran to retrieve a ball. “Don't give me that look, Clarke,” he says when he reaches her again. “Strip Horse is fun. Strip Horse is fucking great."

 

"Do you just make this shit up as you go?"

 

He throws the basketball at her, so fast she has to fumble to catch it. He grins adorably at her slight struggle.

 

She rolls her eyes, agrees anyway, because she's not going to give up on _that_ chance.

 

And, okay, she knows Bellamy is attractive. Has known it for a while now. But she's seen him without a shirt countless times, didn't think it'd be a problem. Until he misses the net for the third time and moves to take off his pants.

 

"What are you doing?"

 

"Stripping, Princess. What's it look like?"

 

She swallows, misses the next shot. The face Bellamy makes when she steps out of her dress, clad in only her lace underwear and bra, is worth it, though.

 

She sees his Adam's apple bob, his eyes raking over her appreciatively. She whips the basketball back at him; it's his turn to shoot, and miss, hopefully. Or not.

 

He smirks, clearing his clouded expression, before throwing the ball under one leg and up towards the net. He makes the shot, impossibly.

 

"Lebron James, is that you?" Bellamy teases, referring to himself, holding his arms out in satisfaction.

 

"Cockiness is unattractive. Did you know?"

 

"Shut up and shoot, Clarke," he says, no venom to his words. He's grinning at her.

 

She looks away to attempt the same trick shot. And misses.

 

She spins to scowl at Bellamy. He's raising his eyebrows at her, hands on his hips.

 

Clarke's about to rage about how unfair the entire stripping situation is when a light flickers on. Keys are jingling in the distance.

 

Bellamy grabs their things, then her hand, before he runs towards the exit.

 

"Wait!" Clarke grabs his white dress shirt before they exit into the autumn air. "I'm going to freeze my ass off."

 

"Want my sweater?" Bellamy is zipping up his pants when she finishes buttoning his shirt.

 

"It's okay, I already stole your shirt."

 

They hear the loud creak of the gym door open.

 

"Come on."

 

They run until they reach the harbor, panting and laughing.

 

“I can’t believe we just did that.”

 

“First time breaking the law, Clarke?”

 

She shoves him, but he catches her hand gently and holds it, laughing at her look of petulance.

 

“I’ll have you know that I am very fun. Just because I don’t break the law, doesn’t mean I’m not fun.”

 

“Yeah, you’re fun, Clarke,” he rasps, smirking down at her. He’s still holding her hand.

 

“I’ll prove it. Let’s jump.” She blurts, nodding her head to indicate the harbor.

 

Bellamy raises his eyebrows at her, as if he’s expecting her to tell him _sike_. She merely raises her eyebrows in response.

 

“Alright, Princess. Let’s do it.”

 

She feels victorious until Bellamy strips out of his pants. Again. He brings his boxers down with them.

 

Clarke swallows, looking away quickly, but not before she gets a view of his considerable length.

 

“You’re blushing, Clarke.” She shoves him again, letting out a nervous chuckle. “You coming or what?” He asks amusedly.

 

She nods and tries really hard not to squirm under his heavy gaze as she strips back down to her underwear. His eyes stay on hers, though, when she reaches behind to unhook her bra. And when she pulls down her underwear, he simply grabs her hand when she’s upright again, looking her straight in the eye.

 

It’s pitch black, and the harbor is completely deserted, but she still feels like someone may walk by and see them, call the cops because this is definitely a public disturbance. Not to Clarke, but.

 

The adrenaline rush she gets is enough, though, to make her run with Bellamy and jump into the frigid cold water.

 

“Mother fucker, that’s cold!”

 

Bellamy’s booming laughter reaches her ears and she joins in.

 

“Nah, it’s _fun_ , Princess.” But she sees the way his teeth are clattering through his shit-eating grin. 

 

Bellamy swims up to her, wrapping a strong arm around her waist and pulling her flush against him. Not suggestive, it’s just warmer that way. She wraps a hand around the back of his neck to hang on.

 

His hair is sticking adorably to his forehead, and his lips are beginning to turn blue. He definitely feels her nipples brushing against his chest, but his arm doesn’t stray from its place on her lower back and hip. He’s smiling at her. Clarke is sure she’s grinning back.

 

“Are my lips blue yet?” She asks through her chattering teeth.

 

His warm gaze lands on her lips, and it’s like he jolts her or something. A shiver racks her body at his heated observation.

 

“They’re getting there. Let’s go before we get pneumonia.”

 

By the time they finally make it to Clarke’s apartment, they’re both shaking like leaves from the leftover cold.

 

Clarke makes her way to the bedroom to change, passing a mirror on the way. “Hey, I look pretty cute in your shirt.”

 

Bellamy stops drinking his water to glare at her. “Yeah. Too bad I’m gonna need that back. I have too few as it is. Girls are always stealing my shirts.”

 

Clarke places her hands on her hips, causing the shirt to ride up her bare legs slightly. “Maybe if you had fewer one night stands, you’d have more shirts.” She’s teasing, but Bellamy’s face goes serious. He sets the water bottle down to slowly make his way over to her, clad in his low riding jeans and unzipped grey sweater.

 

“So what you’re saying is, if I slept with fewer women there’d be less of them to take my shirts?” His voice is low, raspy.

 

Clarke swallows nervously. “Yeah,” she breathes. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.” He’s close - so close she could count the freckles on his face, no problem.

 

He lifts his hands slowly, as if she’ll run away, to grip both sides of her shirt. He undoes the first button slowly, surely.

 

“Alright.” He undoes the next button. “No more one night stands.” Another button. “Starting now, I’m changing my ways.” The next button. “So you can keep this shirt.” He deftly undoes the last two buttons, but his hands keep the shirt closed still, just the sides of her breasts and stomach visible.

 

Clarke’s chest is basically heaving up and down, and she’s sure she’s flushing down to her toes.

 

“It’s a nice shirt,” is her smart and breathy response.

 

Bellamy slowly opens up the shirt, pulling it away from her skin. His gaze is boring into hers, as if he’s asking for permission. Making sure she really wants this. Finally, his eyes rake down her form appreciatively.

 

Clarke inhales sharply, feeling as though his gaze is touching her skin. When he meets her stare again, he’s asking her something in that deep, brown, passionate gaze of his. 

 

So, she’s nodding when his mouth crashes down onto hers.

 

And then it’s like they can’t physically stop. She doesn’t think she’ll ever be able to stop this.

 

His hands immediately slide down to grip her ass, to lift her against him, as if he’s been waiting on her to do so. She moans into his mouth.

 

When he pulls away, his gaze is soft and focused on her. She’s panting, gripping the curls at the base of his neck, both hoping and not hoping he sees how she’s feeling inside: rhapsodic.

 

“You sure?” He rasps, and she closes her eyes. Because of course he’s like this. Making sure it’s what she wants. _It is_.

 

She nods, pulling him back to her. “Yes,” she pants into his mouth, terrified and excited all at once.

 

His kiss becomes gentler, licking into her mouth with wet, hot purpose. They tumble into her bedroom that way, his tongue on hers making her head spin. It’s a good thing his strong, solid arms are basically holding her up, their bodies aligned like two books on a shelf.

 

“Bellamy,” she pants. “Bed,” she tells him, because he got distracted grinding her slowly against the wall, his big hands gripping her ass. She pushes his sweater down, slides it off his arms brusquely. Her heart feels like it’s about to beat out of her chest.

 

“Bossy,” he breathes into her mouth before lifting her up so her legs wrap tightly around his waist.

 

He lays her on top of her bed, and her chest and stomach are fully bared to him now, his shirt folding over to kiss her white bed sheets.

 

His gaze caresses her head to toe, making her squirm, before he leans down to kiss her navel. He licks a path around her belly button before gently nibbling on the soft skin of her stomach. “You’re gorgeous,” he breathes into her skin.

 

She’s panting so hard her breasts are almost obstructing her view of him every few seconds. Her head is laying flat on the bed, so she grabs a pillow, so she can see him worshipping her body.

 

He kisses her hip before pecking his way up the rest of her body until he reaches her breasts. “Jesus, Clarke.” He pushes her breasts together, his grip firm, making them look even larger, before diving in to kiss his way across them. She throws her head back on a moan when he twirls his tongue around her nipple, teasing, flicking and biting it.

 

She can feel how hard he is through his jeans – can’t bring herself to do much about it, though, when he’s praising her tits like this. He lays wet kisses to one breast, squeezing the other so it doesn’t feel neglected.

 

She thinks she’s about to come from this alone when he begins to move down again. When he gets to her hips, biting one side, she looks down and meets his heated gaze.

 

He kisses his way down the inside of her thighs, still looking up at her.

 

She moans unabashedly. “Bellamy,” she whimpers, “come on.”

 

She feels his smile on the inside of her thigh. “Just trying to savor this, Clarke,” he tells her, his voice dripping with affection and want.

 

She’s about to scream at him, to hurry the fuck up, but then he’s gripping her hips and licking into her with purpose. Broad strokes with the flat of his tongue, strokes that make her cunt clench around him. His grip tightens when she rocks up against his mouth, his attention having turned to sucking her clit.

 

He moans into her when she grips his hair so tight her hands ache, and it nearly undoes her. He teases her clit, his name falling from her lips like a prayer, until her chest is heaving up and down.

 

“Get up here,” she pants, and he does, but not before pressing a couple sloppy kisses to her clit. She can hear how wet she is.

 

His kiss is bruising when he finally makes his way up. Her taste on his tongue makes her cunt ache. He kisses her until she physically can’t take him not being inside her any longer.

 

She reaches down to unbutton his jeans, shoving them down as far as her arms go. Bellamy kicks them the rest of the way off, turning onto his back so he can push his boxers down as well.

 

Her mouth waters when she sees his dick spring free from its previous confines. And then he’s rolling back on top of her, kissing her deeply.

 

“I’m on the pill,” she says into his mouth, trying to shuck his shirt off her shoulders before he gently halts her struggle.

 

“Leave it on,” he tells her so low she swears she feels the vibration in her core. “Looks sexy.”

 

He caresses her clit a couple more times, until she’s nearly crying with need for him, before he slides in, her walls allowing him little give. He buries his face into her neck when he’s buried to the hilt, his grunt laced with desire.

 

“Fuck, Bellamy.” She squeezes his hips with her legs, rests her feet above his ass so she can feel him everywhere.

 

He tugs her earlobe with his teeth before he pulls out almost all the way, slamming back into her, nearly making her scream.  

 

Gripping her thigh in one hand, he begins moving at a pace that nearly drives her mad, slowly pulling out of her only to slam back in, hitting her right where she wants him. She’s probably writhing like a leaf in the wind, can’t control her high-pitched moans. His deep grunts and appraising comments only spurring her on further.

 

“Fuck, Clarke. That’s it,” he pants into her ear. “You look amazing, feel so tight around me, baby.”

 

She mewls when he thrusts hardly into her, losing his control for a second. When his next thrust is gentler, she grips his ass, holding him there. “Harder, Bellamy,” she pants into his mouth.

 

“Fuck,” he mutters, before he speeds up, fucking her deep and proper, making her scream her praises.

 

“Faster,” she cries, and Bellamy listens, lifting her leg higher up on his back so he can drive into her, unrelenting and perfect.

 

She lets him drive her into a blissful, deep oblivion; his kisses unbearably sweet and gentle after they both come down.

 

Because fuck it. Bellamy’s worth her number going up.

 

*

 

"Hey," Bellamy rasps, half asleep. "I'll go to Raven's wedding with you."

 

She turns to face him. His hair is a mess - curls strewn across his forehead haphazardly, twirling around his ears, sticking out on some ends. His eyes are nearly closing; he's ready to pass out from his long shift at work. But they caught the bad guy, so he looks at peace. The freckles dusting his cheeks look even more poignant under the moonlight streaming through Clarke's window. She swallows past the nervous lump in her throat.

 

"Really?"

 

Bellamy turns his head to gaze back at her sleepily. "Yeah, why not?"

 

Clarke allows herself a couple seconds of staring back at him, to make sure he's being serious, before glancing back towards the episode of Homeland that they’re watching. She has no idea what's going on.

 

"Yeah, that'd be great, actually. Thanks, Bellamy." Her voice sounds strange even to her.

 

"Don't mention it," he says on a yawn, turning his head back into her pillow. And she knows he means it. Because that's the kind of decent guy Bellamy is. She's angry it took her so long to notice.

 

*

“Bellamy said he’d go with me to your wedding, so. Yeah, you can add my plus one.”

 

Raven’s marker slips, sliding off the table nametag she’s neatly writing on, screwing up the entire thing. “Excuse me?”

 

“Did you really not hear me or are you just being dramatic?” Clarke resumes glue-gunning little decorative lilies onto the table tags.

 

“Clarke Griffin, not too long ago I mentioned Bellamy to you and you called him inhumane!”

 

Wells walks into the kitchen then. “Who did Clarke call inhumane?”

 

“I did not!” Clarke shouts in dismay. _Did she really?_ Clarke winces.

 

“Explain, woman.” Wells takes a seat beside Raven, giving her a quick peck on the cheek before grabbing an empty nametag to fill.

 

“There’s nothing to explain. He’s just being a good friend. That’s it.”

 

“Is this the hot neighbour?” Wells questions. Raven nods, smirking.

 

Clarke groans. “We’re just… it's not a big deal, okay? Gosh, you two are insufferable.”

 

“Hey! What did I do? And since when don’t you tell me about your new love interests, Clarke?” Wells questions, his warm gaze on Clarke, informing her that he’s just teasing.

 

Clarke throws a decorative lily at his head. It bounces off pathetically.

 

Raven shakes her head, lips pursed. “I mean, I’m really proud of you right now, but it seems you’re still in denial, which frightens me.”

 

Clarke sighs long-sufferingly. “Denial of what? There’s nothing complicated about our situation. Leave it alone.”

 

Raven smirks, “Alright, Clarke,” and adds Bellamy Blake to the list with a flourish. 

 

 

*

 

Bellamy's sitting on the floor in front of the couch one afternoon, looking through his case notes, when she realizes. He turns around to face her, seated on the couch above him, just as she's working up the nerve to ask him if he's still serious about being her date to Raven's wedding.

 

He plants his hands on both her thighs, gently rubbing them up and down, like he's trying to warm her up. "Hey, when's Raven's wedding again?" He asks, all genuine interest, as though he can read her damn mind.

 

"Two weeks," she tells him through the lump in her throat. "Why?"

 

"Nothing, I just need to get a new suit, is all. I ripped the last one I bought."

 

"Are you sure? Won't that be expensive?"

 

He shrugs, slipping the tips of his fingers underneath the bottom of her shorts. "No big deal. Can't show up with a ripped suit now, can I?" He bends to kiss her knee before turning back around. Just like that. No incident. He just needs a new suit.

 

She stretches out an arm, rests her hand at the base of his neck to twirl the curls there. He relaxes into her touch; curls into it slightly like a cat, his head leaning back a bit.

 

"Thank you," she murmurs.

 

He turns to glance at her, a soft smile on his full lips. "Nothing to thank me for. I'm excited to meet your friends, Clarke."

 

She smiles back, nods. She watches the muscles in his hand work as he takes notes in his legal pad, remembers how they labored to make her fall apart.

 

She's fucked.

 

*

 

“Hmm,” Bellamy hums against her ear, his arms wrapped around her waist from behind. They’re examining two of her paintings, trying to decide which one she should send in to Lincoln to place in his gallery, if she ever works up the nerve to do so.

 

The first one is of a mountain landscape in North Vancouver, from the last trip she took with her father. It’s the painting Bellamy told her was amazing, that first day not too long ago, when he rushed into her apartment seeking solace from his tumble with Roma. It’s mainly blue and white, but the occasional bursts of orange give it life. It’s one of her favorites. The second, a simple landscape of the harbor at night, feels and looks real. She paid extra attention to the stars in the sky, even though you can barely see them here in the city. She nearly transports back to her night there with Bellamy, the painted stars reminding her of the ones on Bellamy’s cheekbones. And nose, and shoulders, and stomach—

 

“You know I love the Grouse one,” Bellamy begins, tugging her away from her distracted thoughts. “But, then again, we have some pretty great memories at that harbor…” Bellamy trails off, placing a soft, wet kiss on her neck, under her ear. Clarke squirms, squeezes her thighs together. Bellamy chuckles softly, noticing.

 

“Grouse,” he finally decides, sneaking a hand beneath her shirt to rest on her stomach.

 

Clarke nods, breathless, “We’ll see. It might be too late.”

 

“Clarke,” Bellamy warns. “Save it. You’re submitting a painting. It’s too good not to.” His hand slowly makes its way down, until he’s cupping her most intimate parts. He angles his head to kiss her jaw, until Clarke turns her head so she’s panting into his mouth, swallowing her soft whimpers.

 

“Fine,” she moans into his mouth.

 

Bellamy breaks their connection to erupt into a goofy grin, “Fine,” he agrees before she launches at him, throwing them backwards onto her couch. 

 

*

 

She's painting a landscape of Yosemite, to give to Raven as a wedding gift, when she finds out.

 

Bellamy's phone vibrating with a text pulls her out of her brushstroke-infused trance. She reaches over without thinking, mechanically and still in a daze from painting, so she doesn't realize she's reading his text until her stomach drops.

 

_hey man, you never let me know about the info I got on Woods. Give me a call when you get the chance, no rush._

 

She's still staring at his phone, heart pounding, mouth ajar, when Bellamy comes barreling back into her apartment.

 

"Found it. It was hiding under my damn couch," he says, making his way over, charger probably in hand, so he can charge his phone. But she's still holding it.

 

"What's up?" He says when he reaches her finally, planting a kiss on her shoulder. She thrusts the phone into his chest, rising from her perch on the stool.

 

"Clarke," she hears him call, confused, through the thrashing sound in her ears.

 

"You knew?" She spits. "You had the info on Lexa all this time and you lied about it?"

 

He's reading the text, posture stiff, eyebrows furrowed. When he finally glances up, she can't read the expression on his face. Guilt, maybe.

 

"I didn't lie to you, Clarke. I just - I didn't tell you. I didn't think it mattered anymore."

 

"Is that so?" She knows she's being irrationally angry, but she can't stop it. Feels like she's a speeding car, with broken brakes, heading straight for a barricade. "When the hell did you find out?" When he takes too long to respond, looking away from her, she asks him again. "When, Bellamy?"

 

"After the harbor," he concedes, hands on hips. He's not meeting her gaze.

 

"I think you should go," she clips, voice cruel, cold. Numb.

 

His gaze sears into hers.

 

“What about us, Clarke? Huh?”

 

“I think we should just forget the whole thing.”

 

“Because of Lexa?”

 

“No! Because look at us. It hasn’t even been a week and we’re already lying to each other!”

 

Bellamy shakes his head, the muscle in his jaw ticking.

 

She’s on a roll, can’t stop the words from tumbling out of her mouth. “You’re the kind of guy who lies and manipulates to get what he wants! I don’t need another lying, manipulative jackass – I’ve already dated fifty of you!”

 

Hurt flashes across his eyes before he tampers it down, adopting the expressionless mask she was so used to before.

 

“Well, good luck trying to make things work with Lexa. You obviously have it all figured out. I’m sure it’ll go way better this time around, Princess,” he spits before turning on his heel to leave.

 

“At least I can have a fucking relationship!” She screams pettily before he slams the door.

 

It feels final.

 

*

 

She’s walking through Back Bay when she spots her, descending the steps of a brownstone, something dim and imposing coiling heavy in Clarke’s gut.

 

“Clarke?”

 

“Lexa, hey.” Clarke stops in front of what she assumes is Lexa’s home. She looks intimidating and beautiful as ever, green eyes piercing her own blue ones. Bright, expansive, easy to get lost in.

 

“Wow, I can’t believe it’s really you. How have you been?”

 

“Good. Busy, more than anything. How about you? Are you still with the military?”

 

Lexa shook her head, a soft smile on her lips. “No. I’ve been out a couple years now. I’ve been overseeing my father’s business.”

 

Clarke nods, tries to imagine Lexa ruling over a billion dollar corporation, is easily able to envision it. “That’s amazing.”

 

Lexa nods, green eyes threatening to swallow her whole. “We should catch up. Are you heading somewhere now?”

 

Clarke hesitates. _Why_ , she has no idea. _This is what you wanted, no?_ Her gut clenches, nausea budding there. She’s never felt as helpless as she does when she’s facing Lexa.  

 

In the end, that feeling of helplessness is what decides her.

 

 

*

 

She’s buying tampons at CVS when she spots Bellamy’s sister browsing the hair products at the end of the same aisle. Clarke nearly knocks down the shelf in her haste to get out of there, but her flustered re-ordering of the shelf seems to catch Octavia’s attention.

 

“Clarke, right?”

 

She nods. “Hey, Octavia.” Clarke awkwardly flails the tampon box in her hand, somewhat of a wave.

 

“Ou, that reminds me,” Octavia voices, leaning over to grab a box of tampons. She smiles at Clarke when she straightens back up. Clarke breathes out a laugh, tries to return her smile, but she feels something akin to regret pooling in her belly.

 

“So, are you and my brother still being idiots?” Octavia’s voice is exasperated, but her expression remains friendly.

 

Clarke opens her mouth to reply, closes it again when she can’t think of anything to say. Her brows meet in consternation.

 

“Listen,” Octavia says, gentle yet firm at once, “My brother… he’s going to stay away, because he thinks it’s what you want. And I’m not saying it isn’t, but he’s also going to mope over it if he doesn’t get any closure. So, do with that what you will. Just remember, Bell always means well, even if he has a funny way of showing it.”

 

Clarke nods, feels a cold sensation run through her veins at Octavia’s sobering statement. She’s been such an asshole to Bellamy, and for what? She knows he didn’t lie to her, but she blamed him anyway. Even after her helped her. After they had sex. After she really got to know him and realize what an earnest guy he is. What a loyal and passionate person he is, how much he wears his heart on his sleeve for those he genuinely cares for. She feels horrible.

 

“I… I never meant to overreact, you know.” The admission feels heavy, but she trusts Octavia, inexplicably. “I just,” Clarke stops, shrugs. “Thanks, Octavia.”

 

Octavia nods. “Hopefully I’ll see you around, yeah?”

 

Clarke nods in return, smiles. It comes effortless this time.

 

*

 

Clarke’s leaving her apartment, dressed in her periwinkle maid of honor gown, feet already aching from her pumps, when she notices Bellamy heading out as well.

 

“Hi,” she squeaks out, closing her front door. Bellamy does the same, his stiff back to her, before he slowly turns around to face her.

 

“Clarke.” His face is unreadable, of course. He’s wearing a tux. He looks handsome.

 

“How are you?” She manages.

 

Bellamy’s gaze scorches her. “Fine.”

 

“My painting is getting featured in Lincoln’s gallery,” she blurts out, when he doesn’t ask her how she’s doing, cheeks heating up as soon as the words are out.

 

Something flickers behind his hard gaze for a moment before it sparks and fades. Bellamy nods stiffly. “That’s great, Clarke.” He says it simply, as if he hadn’t inspired her to submit it in the first place. As if he hadn’t teased her about it, told her he was going to steal the painting and pin it up on his wall after.

 

“Where you headed?” Clarke asks, sweeping her gaze over him, wonders if this is the same tux he would have worn alongside her at Raven’s wedding. She swallows the lump in her throat at the thought. His eyes rake over her, doing the same, making her skin heat up, before he shrugs.

 

“Work thing. Precinct’s anniversary.” Clarke nods, a sad smile fluttering on her lips. He moves to begin his descent down the stairs. “Have fun at Raven’s wedding,” he calls behind his shoulder.

 

Inexplicably, it nearly makes her cry.

 

He remembered. Of course he did.

 

*

 

"You wanna know what I think?" Raven questions, taking a seat beside Clarke at the bridal party table. Clarke’s all danced out, nursing a long island iced tea by herself. The bottom tufts of Raven’s mermaid gown brush Clarke’s ankles. She looks gorgeous, and she’s so damn happy that her and Wells found each other.

 

"No," Clarke mumbles.

 

"I think," Raven goes on, unrepentant, "you're scared. Finn fucked us over, and Lexa was a train wreck, and now Bellamy has actually made you feel something real for once. And you're scared. You're scared that if you let him in, he'll just screw you over like they did."

 

Clarke shakes her head, plays with the pack of sugar on the table. "I'm not scared. I'm... I’m being realistic, Raven."

 

"Bullshit."

 

Clarke scowls at her best friend, before looking away. She takes a shallow breath before speaking up softly. “He… he probably wants nothing to do with me now.”

 

“Well, you’ll never know if you don’t try, Clarke. I know you’re scared. God, do I ever. But, I also know that if you don’t at least try to make things okay with him, because you lost a friend too, then you’ll be so pissed at yourself later. And I’ll be pissed at you, too.”

 

“Oh no, not you, too,” Clarke says through a watery smile.

 

Raven laughs before bumping her shoulder with her own. “Go get him before the real party starts.”

 

*

Clarke eyes the Boston Police Department’s terracotta building, with its off-white window accents. She’s clasps her shaking hands together before making her way up the steps on shaky legs.

 

She hears a microphone-projected voice in the main hallway, eyes the gentle looking man behind the counter, typing away on his computer in a navy button down.

 

“Hi,” eyeing his nametag, “Monty,” she says meekly.

 

The man, probably in his mid-twenties, looks up and smiles at her. “Hey. Oh, you must be here for the gala. It’s just straight down the hall. The room will be on your right.”

 

Clarke eyes the ominous hallway, the blue and white balloons plastered on the walls doing nothing to appear inviting. She hears hollers and a clapping audience. Swallowing, she thanks Monty before making her way towards the commotion.

 

She stops in the threshold, sees the bar first, then the multiple circular tables, each one filled with spiffy and fancy looking cops. There’s a small stage, a podium with the image of the BPD’s badge on it. Everyone is mingling as a man, with a fancy uniform and numerous badges attached to it, makes his way down from the stage, taking a seat before the music starts up again.

 

_What is she doing here? How could she ever let Raven convince her this way a good idea?_

She’s about to turn and leave when she spots Bellamy across the room, speaking to a beautiful woman. Her hair is partially pinned up in soft, brown curls, which, she notes enviously, look naturally coiled. Bellamy looks just as handsome as he did when she was leaving her apartment earlier.

 

As if feeling her gaze, Bellamy glances up, meeting it and holding her frozen in place. She manages a weak smile. He stiffens, excusing himself before making his way over.

 

She can see the shock and indifference battling behind Bellamy’s eyes, somehow managing to express both at once.

 

“Clarke. What are you doing here?”

 

“Uhm. I— I just.” She looks down at her nude pumps, shaking her head, trying to collect her thoughts. “Can we talk? In private?”

 

She sees Bellamy’s Adam’s apple bob in his throat. He nods, finally, “Sure.” He leads her out of the room, with an instinctive hand placed on the small of her back, past Monty, who gives her an encouraging smile, and into the break room.

 

He moves to stand across from her, leaning a hip on the counter, arms crossed over his chest. “Is everything okay?”

 

Clarke smiles at him gently, welcomes the warmth spreading through her chest. “Yeah, everything’s okay.”

 

He nods, dropping her gaze.

 

“Look,” she says softly, “I’m sorry I interrupted your night, I just—I had to tell you that….” She swallows, looking up at him. He does the same, his gaze unreadable. “I made a mistake, Bellamy. I never should have freaked on you the way I did over Lexa. I just – I’m so used to betrayal from people, that I made you out to be that person in my head in that situation, too. That was wrong of me, because I know your intentions were in the right place. I’m a mess, but I’m sorry.” She tries a smile, but she knows it fails. Her eyes are beginning to sting at the impassive expression on his face.

 

_She should have never gotten her hopes up._

Bellamy finally nods, a muscle ticking in his jaw, the only telltale of any frustration. His arms remain crossed over his broad chest. “It’s fine, Clarke.”

 

_It’s not, though._

Clarke feels the helpless feeling she hates bloom in her gut -- hates that it’s present in the first place. _She fucked everything up._

“Is it?” She questions, her voice cracking on the two simple words.

 

His gaze flicks up to meet her own, and there’s finally some emotion behind his earthy brown eyes. No warmth yet, though. “What do you want me to say, Clarke? It’s fine – I forgive you.” He shrugs, his deep voice washing over her, making her shiver faintly.

 

She swallows the panic. “It’s not, Bellamy. It’s not fine for me. I – I miss you. I miss you so much it aches sometimes. And. I know this is so selfish of me, after the way I treated you, but. I miss my friend, okay? I miss you,” she pleads, uncaring if she sounds desperate for him. She is. 

 

His jaw clenches so hard she fears he may pop a muscle. “Clarke,” he rasps, fraught. 

 

“I’ll leave if you really don’t want this, okay? I promise you, Bellamy. I just need to know.” She takes a step forward, closing the distance between them.

 

“Clarke,” he says desperate, almost pitying. “You give love without even realizing it. But you have no fucking clue how to accept it.”

 

A tear escapes at that – at the pain lacing his words. At the ringing truth of them. “I know,” she whispers. “But I’m trying.” She grabs the hand hiding beneath his tight elbow, holds it in both of her own. Her tears are streaming down her face freely now, and she doesn’t give a shit. “I’m trying with _you_. You taught me that I don’t need to be scared. In loving me, at least I hope you did, you taught me how to do the same.” She places a chaste kiss onto his knuckles. “I’m so sorry I hurt you.”

 

She looks up at Bellamy’s face, her heart dropping at what she finds there. His mouth is parted in shock, a wet sheen to his eyes. He looks… vulnerable. “I did. Love you, that is.” He crushes her to him, his hand grabbing a fistful of her hair, breathing sharply against her forehead. “I’m sorry I didn’t show you that text, I just--”

 

Clarke shushes him gently, moving away slightly so she can cup his face in her hands. “I know, Bellamy. I know.”

 

He closes the distance between them, kissing her desperately. “I missed you, too. Everyday, Clarke.”

 

She grins against his mouth, placing another wet kiss there.

 

“Do you still wanna be my date to Raven’s wedding?” She asks him shyly, twirling the curls at the nape of his neck.

 

Her heart soars when he chuckles, kissing her again, slowly and tenderly this time. He pulls her towards him, as close as she can get, licking into her mouth with dizzying pressure. It’s one of his all-consuming kisses, the ones where she forgets her name. Forgets where she is, what she’s doing. Never who she is, though; Bellamy has a way of reminding her of that with just one look.

 

His gaze is heartbreakingly tender and open when he pulls away. “Yeah, Clarke. I’d love to.” 

 

And she knows he means it.

**Author's Note:**

> validate me w/ lovely comments, if you feel so inclined 
> 
> also: [me ](http://purekatharsis.tumblr.com)


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